This morning I have been trying to think about heaven, but without much success. I don't know why I should expect to have any idea of heaven. I could never have imagined this world if I hadn't spent almost eight decades walking around in it. People talk about how wonderful the world seems to children, and that's true enough. But children think they will
grow into it and understand it, and I know very well that I will not, and would not if I had a dozen lives. That's clearer to me every day. Each morning I'm like Adam waking, up in Eden, 66
amazed at the cleverness of my hands and at the brilliance pouring into my mind through my eyes—old hands, old eyes, old mind, a very diminished Adam altogether, and still it is just remarkable. What of me will I still have? Well, this old body has been a pretty good companion. Like Balaam's ass, it's seen the angel I haven't seen yet, and it's lying down in the path. And I must say, too, that my mind, with all its deficiencies, has certainly kept me interested. There's quite a bit of poetry in it that I learned over the years, and a pretty decent vocabulary, much of it unused. And Scripture. I never knew it the way
my father did, or his father. But I know it pretty well. I certainly should. When I was younger than you are now, my father would give me a penny every time I learned five verses so
that I could repeat them without a mistake. And then he'd make a game of saying a verse, and I had to say the next one. We could go on and on like that, sometimes till we came to a genealogy, or we just got tired. Sometimes we'd take roles: he'd be Moses and I'd be Pharaoh, he'd be the Pharisees and I'd be the Lord. That's how he was brought up, too, and it was a great
help to me when I went to seminary. And through the whole of my life.
You know the Lord's Prayer and the Twenty-third Psalm
and Psalm 100. And I heard your mother teaching you the Beatitudes last night. She seems to want me to know that she will bring you up in the faith, and that's a wonderful effort for her to make, because frankly, I never knew anyone in my life with a smaller acquaintance with religion than she had when I first knew her. An excellent woman, but unschooled in Scripture, and in just about everything else, according to her, and that may be true. I say this with all respect.
And yet there always was that wonderful seriousness about her. When she first came to church she would sit in the corner at the back of the sanctuary, and still I would feel as if she
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were the only real listener. I had a dream once that I. was preaching to Jesus Himself, saying any foolish thing I could think of, and He was sitting there in His white, white robe looking patient and sad and amazed. That's what it felt like. Afterward I would think, That did it, she'll never come back^ and then the next Sunday there she'd be. And once again, the sermon I'd spent the week on would be ashes in my mouth. That happened before I even knew her name.
I had an interesting talk this morning with Mr. Schmidt, T.'s father. It seems he overheard some inappropriate language. I'd overheard it, too, in fact, since it has been the favorite joke between the two of you for the last week. I'll admit I didn't see the need to object. We said the same thing when we were children and emerged unscathed, I believe. One of you asks, in a
nai've and fluting voice, AB, CD goldfish? And the other replies in the deepest voice he can muster, a voice full of worldliness
and scorn, L, MNO goldfish! And then outrageous and extravagant laughter. (It is the L, need I say, that has disturbed Mr.
Schmidt.) That young man was very earnest, and I had a terrible time keeping a straight face. I said gravely that, in my experience, it is better not to attempt too strict an isolation of
children, that prohibition loses its force if it is invoked too generally. He finally deferred to my white hair and my vocation,
though he did ask me twice if I was Unitarian.
I told Boughton about this, and he said, "I have ong fet that etter ought to be excuded from the aphabet." Then he laughed, tickled with himself.
He has been in high spirits since he heard from Jack. "He'll be home soon!" he said.
When I asked him where he was coming from, Boughton said, "Well, the postmark on his letter said St. Louis."
I won't tell your mother about my talk with Mr. Schmidt. 68
She wants very much for you to keep your friend. She suffered when you didn't have one.
She suffers for your sake much more than she should. She always imagines the fault is with her, even where it appears to me there is no fault at all.
She told me the other day she wants to read those old sermons that are up in the attic, and I believe she will do that, I
